


The Murderer's Maidenhead

by gorby1991



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/F, Slow Burn, elfs who bottom, grotesque farce, we exist!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorby1991/pseuds/gorby1991
Summary: Muriel is an exile from Valenwood-- a hated criminal, a lethal hunter, an accomplished assassin-- she's also a painfully shy, sexually frustrated virgin. Surrounded by powerful older women on the margins of Cyrodiil's polite society..... what could befall such a maiden? Such an elfen ingenue? What in deed....... !???
Relationships: Ocheeva (Elder Scrolls)/OC
Kudos: 1





	The Murderer's Maidenhead

**Author's Note:**

> IDK anything about the lore of these games I just like to get stoned and play Oblivion. Maybe I looked at Reddit a little but mostly made shit up... Don't get mad at me pls! :D

As an exile Muriel left Valenwood, out of the port of sweltering Haven on a Thalmor ship built in the outlander way, from tree-flesh. She was on the cusp of twenty, young, even among men; she had only her bone pipe, hide tunic and trousers. She had marched in procession at spear-point, the jungle-- once her clement home-- sprung up thorns and gnarled roots in the path of the banished, bloodying their bare feet. They sailed for Dusk. The thick, fragrant jungle air gave way to biting salt winds. The Altmeri crew caged them in the hold, hated prisoners surrendered from Valenwood and Elseweyr. The ship lurched sickeningly from side to side, never ceasing day or night, and the hold stank of every foul thing: shit and vomit, the metallic sweat of the Bosmer, and the loathsome ammonia stench of the miserable Khajit. 

At one time, an Altmer came down to the prisoners' quarters-- a huge woman, tall even for a High Elf. Her uniform was disheveled, topcoat undone, sleeves haphazardly pulled to her elbows, hair hanging limply beside her head. She drug a dog on a noose behind her. She was beautiful, she and the dog-- it stood waist-high to the towering elf, with a hide of wavy golden fur and a long, tapered snout. Despite its refined appearance, it showed little desire to obey. It pulled furiously on the noose and snarled with terror, skin furling on its snout as it bared jagged teeth, dark eyes rolling to reveal crescent-moon whites, powerful legs trembling.

Muriel joined the mass of beastfolk and Bosmer pressed to the grate of the hold, transfixed by the powerful creatures in front of her. The Altmer stood head and shoulders above all of them, glowing with youth and fullness of face-- and, perhaps, a flush of drunkenness. The dog yanked away from her, and she swayed with it, raising one broad, spadelike hand as if to make a gesture. Then, she wrapped the hand around the dog's grimacing snout and gripped it effortlessly. The dog's fearful reluctance turned to panic. It thrashed and pulled, powerful body writhing behind its great head. Its claws made a sound on the floor like spattering hail. Its snorting breath became a labored wheeze, low growling into agonized yelps. The crack of failing cartilage could be heard from where the Altmer gripped its snout. A trickle of blood ran between her first two knuckles. 

The smell of blood electrified the prisoners. There was complete silence as the High elf killed the dog in front of them, first crippling its snout, then drawing a fine gilded sword and beating the creature with its pommel. She kicked its ruined corpse to the grate and watched with amusement as the prisoners tore its flesh with jagged nails and ate the warm meat. Muriel did not even think to reach for a helping before a crass, stinking Khajit pulled her back by the hair, shoved her to the ground, and took her place. She stood cautiously, patting a bruised head, and looked over the mass of desperate prisoners at the patrician creature watching them. She found Altmer ugly for their gauntness-- they stuck her as ill-nourished and unsteady, like the pallid saplings that spring up by accident in caves. This woman, however, had a comely roundness to her face, and Muriel noticed that her forearms were powerful, thick tendons and bulging muscle under golden skin.... Muriel's lips parted as she gazed at the Altmer's crossed arms... The Altmer looked up, and their eyes met...

5 YEARS LATER

...Muriel stirred out of her reverie. As always, the recollection of that memory ignited a lustiness in the young Bosmer. She sat up in bed and scanned the room. The same stone walls, the same arrangement of bunks. It was early morning in Cheydinhal, bare tendrils of sunlight creeping into the dark-blue sky, though there was no way to know it from within the subterranean sanctuary. The room was empty save for the Breton girl whose bunk was beside Muriel's, Antoinetta Marie. Though laying under covers, she was clearly not asleep. It didn't take any great wisdom to identify the sounds of a woman's self-pleasure. Muriel rose, knocking conspicuously on the bedframe. Marie's salacious action halted at once and she froze perfectly still.

Muriel mused, unhurried, over her knapsack, packed the night before. She dressed, drawing a thick wool cloak over herself, took up her longbow and quiver. Finally, she absented herself from the living quarter, leaving Antoinetta Marie to her self-abuse.

The sanctuary was perpetually dim, pervaded with the smell of mildew. Its guardian paced the main hall, bones rattling perversely with each step. She made for the exit in long, brisk strides, giving the undead creature a wide berth. Muriel was no lover of necromancy, nor did she like to stay in the sanctuary long, except to sleep there. Besides the eerie presence of the undead, there was Muriel's painful shyness-- never more painful than in the presence of her admired elders. Particularly...

“Off on contract, sister?” 

Muriel spun on her heel, already swallowing hard. Ocheeva was close behind her, startlingly close. Standing just taller than Muriel, the thick leather padding of her armor did nothing to conceal the Argonian's lean, athletic body. Muriel stared intently at Ocheeva's chin.

“Yes...” 

“My, so early. But, such are the hours you keep.” She chuckled warmly. “Have you eaten?”

“Better to go on an empty stomach,” Muriel stammered. 

Ocheeva hesitated before throwing her head back and squealing with laughter. Muriel jumped in surprise at the noise. “Yes, yes, yes. Well! Go safely with the providence of Sithis. Your target is rarely far from Cheydinhal, no? You should be home tonight-- with a full belly?” The Argonian laughed again. Muriel joined her, anxiously.

“Yes, yes.” Muriel made a gesture in between a deferential nod and a bow before turning and all but sprinting to the door. Her face flushed as she stumbled mounting the ladder and heard Ocheeva suppress a chuckle behind her. She clambered out of the well-door and walked quickly, putting plausible distance between herself and the sanctuary before slowing her pace. The streets of Cheydinhal were all but empty, only a few early risers going about their errands. Muriel fumbled with a pocket on her belt, clumsily extracting a pinch of crushed chitin between her fingers, and loaded her bone pipe as she walked. As soon as she inspired the beetle smoke, her trembling diminished and her excitement abated.

Alright, very well. Muriel had resigned herself to a lifetime of terror in the presence of attractive women. Even in the tight fraternity of the Brotherhood, she hoped only to succeed in solitary vocation. Her anxiety dissipated as she left the confines of the city and passed through the surrounding fields into the woods. She only regretted that her target was not far out of Cheydinhal.


End file.
